Page 9 of Detour

“He doesn’t,” I snarl more aggressively than I’d intended. Beck said she went next door which is a high school. Not a university. With professors that…

“Coty, really,” she huffs. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just know a lot of his students are struggling artists and that pit is just the place a broke writer could find some inspiration in. Poets need to suffer and all that.” I can hear her eye roll.

“Is that what he tells them?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I scoff, folding one arm under the other. “You know exactly what I mean. Dad is a-”

“He’s a wonderful teacher that is held in high regard. Now that’s enough. I wouldn’t want anything to tarnish the reputation he’s worked so hard to achieve.”

What a joke. His reputation’s been formed by his own hands all right. And then some.

“Whatever.” Same conversation, different day. Same denial, different approach. Usually she leaves her head in the sand a little longer. Lets the truth circle her like the starving vulture she knows it is. Once it finally reaches her, it’ll only find an empty shell of deprivation though. She knows. She’s always known. It’s just a ruse she uses to keep her life together. Precariously, but together nonetheless. I’ve never been married so I can’t begin to understand what goes through her mind but I am a man. A decent man with a moral compass that points straighter than my father’s, if he even has one at all anymore. Maybe he never did.

In neutral, I give a couple quick wrist flicks, filling the strained silence with a sound that always soothes my nerves. “I gotta go, Mom.”

“Wait, I want to hear more about this girl that’s got you in a tizzy.”

I almost laugh. I wish Angela had me in a tizzy. Then I might be able to get something done other than constantly wonder what the girl only steps away from my front door is doing.

“There’s not much to tell.” Yet. “She’s…just our neighbor girl.” Although true, the words still taste like a shot of Jägermeister at the end of a long night—a fusion of remorse and sorrow followed by a repulsion so strong you want to claw your own tongue out. “I’ll talk to you later. Watch out for those crazy kids. Let me know if they do anything to your house. I’d be happy to deal with them.” I bet I could even enlist the guys to help. It’s been too long since we’ve had to put someone back in line and fucking with a group of young delinquents sounds fun.

We hang up with a promise to talk again soon, sooner if those little shits strike again, then I leave the deserted parking lot, ready to be home already. My parents’ house was always that: a house. A house full of tension and misery. Confusion and rejection. Deception. Not in the typical upfront way other dysfunctional families might showcase their troubles, but in the unnerving silence where reality hid its ugly face. My parents chose their life, together; I chose mine, separately.

Living with my boys, that’s home. That’s where I can be who I know I was meant to be. Not the inconspicuous bystander my parents treated me as, but the driver of my own journey. The person navigating what routes to take, or better yet the ones to avoid, through life. I may not know where I’ll ultimately end up yet, but I do know my path will never lead back there. Back to that stifling environment where you grin and nod while turning the other cheek.

No, I prefer sharing a three-bedroom apartment with my best friends. For now, at least. Although the prospect of staying there that much longer just got a whole lot more appealing with the addition of a certain stunningly stubborn girl next door.

With that thought, I race toward Creekwood. Halfway there, I decide against stopping off for cherries. A confrontation with Angela will be more rewarding and a hell of a lot cheaper. Seriously, why the fuck are cherries so expensive all of a sudden? If you grow up in the Northwest, you eat cherries. But lately, they’re making it harder and harder. Winning over the girl next door, however, harder, will only make the reward that much sweeter.

CHAPTER 6

Angela

Just a little longer.

With only a few weeks left of school, the teachers are cramming in as many big projects as possible right up until the final grades are collected. That’s cutting things awfully close in my opinion. At least I know I’ll graduate on time with honor roll but what about all those stragglers? The kids on the verge of failing? When will they find out if they can graduate or not? After the caterers have set up? When they’re the only ones still waiting for their names to be called onto the stage?

My English paper needs to be typed before I can turn it in which means I’ll need to go back to the library this weekend. I’ve already written most of it on my notes app on my phone but I still need to finish it, then print the stupid thing. All my other teachers let us email our assignments—save the trees!—but for whatever reason my English teacher insists we physically hand our reports in. Typed, printed, leather bound, sealed with wax, covered in blood and whatever else medieval shit she can think of.

I don’t have the time, or patience, for any of it though. I have to open the wash both Saturday and Sunday which could end up being two full days of work. Hopefully anyway, since I need the extra tips right now while my schedule is still limited with school.

Tonight though, tonight I’m taking a bubble bath while simultaneously shoveling handfuls of popcorn in my mouth, careful not to drop any in the water. Popcorn is cheap yet filling, making it the best of all snacks, especially right before payday.

It’s Friday night so I’ll need to be up early again tomorrow. The guys across the hall have been somewhat quiet except for the other night when someone over there played music like they were trying out for America’s Next Top DJ. I ended up actually liking their song choices, so it didn’t bother me in the slightest. In fact, they did me a favor by saving me from playing my own before bed. A trick I picked up to drown out the incessant arguments between my mom and whoever her nightly opponent was. I can sleep without music playing, I just prefer not to. Music is the one thing that can make you feel while making you forget all at once. It can take you away or bring you back, depending on the song.

All three motorcycles were missing from the lot earlier, not that I’m keeping track, so I’m hoping they won’t be entertaining again tonight. Maybe they’ll be gone all night, leaving me to sleep in peace. Although the images that scenario conjures aren’t all that relaxing either. Thoughts of nighttime activities they might partake in ruin my good mood, so I dry off just as my skin begins to prune.

In a sports bra and matching shorts, I open the windows noticing the bikes are still gone then crawl into bed. The last couple weeks play through my head but my mind keeps stopping on Coty. There’s no arguing the man is attractive but it’s his eyes that tell me there’s something deeper, something warmer, something I’ve never experienced but could easily covet with greedy hands. Those mocha eyes hold a mischievous glint like Beckett yet a seriousness to rival Marc’s. The few interactions I’ve had with him somehow leave me yearning for more. More from him. More of him. Just more.

That’s the sole purpose of that deafening alarm that sounded the second he threatened my resolution. To protect against that little pang of want his company creates. More is a luxury, an extravagance I can’t afford.

“Issues” by Julia Michaels fills the small space of my studio. I hit repeat, hoping the melody will lull me into an effortless sleep.

* * *

A few hours later, the steady purr of motorcycles cutting off startles me awake. Through squinted eyelids, I watch headlights bounce across my ceiling as other cars pull in. Voices rise in unison while car doors slam shut making me groan.